


Drop Your Defenses and Don't Let Go

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Face-Fucking, Fantasy, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean wants things he knows damn well he can't have, but a little fantasizing never hurt anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drop Your Defenses and Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/gifts).



From the moment Sam stumble-trip-crashes back into his life, Dean knows he's got a serious problem. For all that he's been keeping an eye on Sam from a distance—because Sam leaving for school didn't make him any less Dean's responsibility—having his brother right there in person is a completely different disaster.

Sam was already half an inch taller than Dean when he left, but the guy is a fucking _mountain_ now. He's bulked out in the chest and shoulders, leaving almost no sign of the skinny soccer player Dean remembers picking up from practice. The first time Sam walks out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, Dean almost walks into a fucking wall he's caught so flat-footed, and the situation doesn't improve from there. Life on the road means close quarters and less than zero personal space. There's no respite from the tangled mess of old habits they fall into, or from the strange new territory of trying to navigate each other as grown-ass men. 

The constant distraction is maddening, and Dean only hopes he's not being too obvious about his uninvited crush. The last thing he needs is Sam realizing where his head is at.

Weirdly enough, Dean feels pretty chill about the whole suddenly-attracted-to-his-own-brother thing. It's fucking weird—there's no denying that—but Dean's never stressed himself too much about 'weird'. It's not like he plans on saying anything out loud. Not like his thoughts will ever belong anywhere but tucked away in the privacy of his own head, where they're not apt to do any harm. Dean deals with actual _monsters_ every goddamn day. A dirty thought or two doesn't put him in that camp, even if the thoughts are about his own blood. They're just thoughts, and they're damn well going to stay that way.

Whether Sam is just clueless, or he's simply distracted by all the signs and visions and failure to find their dad, Dean doesn't know. The end result is the same regardless: Sam doesn't catch him looking, and Dean doesn't make any real effort to stop. It's an easy enough balance to maintain, and Dean's got plenty of worries far more urgent than this.

Except somewhere between the ugly disaster in Hibbing, Minnesota and that goddamn tulpa they take down in Texas, something changes. There's no decisive moment to push Dean over the edge. There's only Sam, falling farther and farther into Dean's orbit, tangling him up inside and throwing Dean steadily off his stride. 

Suddenly they're not just thoughts after all; suddenly Dean _wants_ , and that is a whole different disaster waiting to happen

The dreams should maybe surprise him, but they don't. It's not rocket science to work out why suddenly Dean keeps waking up riled and overheated in the middle of the goddamn night. It's even worse when he can remember the dreams clearly, because then he can't stop thinking about the fierce hazel of Sam's eyes or the strength in his brother's enormous hands. Those moments—when he wakes up hot and hard in the stifling darkness—are the worst, because all Dean wants is to slide his own right hand down his shorts and goddamn _do_ something about it. 

Instead he lies there in the claustrophobic darkness, painfully aware of the fact that Sam is asleep less than three feet away. He waits in mute frustration for his hard-on to subside, every fucking time. More than once he considers escaping to the privacy of the bathroom to take care of business, but somehow he always talks himself out of it.

Shame isn't what stops him, though Dean is all too aware that it probably should be. What stops him is the fear of Sam overhearing him through the flimsy door. Dean isn't great at keeping quiet through an orgasm, and Sam is a light sleeper these days. The last thing he needs is Sam waking up and interrupting him just before the finish line. This whole mess is awkward enough alone in Dean's head. He's not too keen on learning what it's like to _share_ the awkwardness with Sam.

For a solid week, Dean dreams every night. Between the interrupted sleep and the growing edge of sexual frustration, even Sam starts to notice that he's on edge. Dean hasn't ever made a habit of lying to his brother outright, but it turns out lying to Sam's not that much harder than lying to the rest of the world. It leaves an uglier taste in Dean's mouth, sure, but it's still absurdly simple to look his brother in the eye and tell him everything is fine. 

The problem is, Sam is always _right fucking there_ , no matter where Dean turns. There's no such thing as privacy between them, no clear lines to help mark out where Dean's personal space ends and Sam's begins. There's no room to _breathe_ , and Dean is damn near ready to crawl out of his own skin.

When they hit a wall in their search for a nain rouge in northern Wisconsin it's almost a relief, because it means Sam will bury himself in the local library stacks for hours—maybe days if Dean is even luckier—and that's a reprieve Dean sorely needs. He's not surprised when Sam tries to convince him to come help, but Dean must be broadcasting more of his desperation for solitude than he realized, because his brother doesn't press after Dean's initial refusal. Considering Sam's tenacious nature, there's no other explanation for how quickly he caves.

Sam's expression of wary concern is almost comical, but Dean doesn't have time to laugh before his brother is ducking through the door and out into the motel parking lot. The door swings heavily shut in Sam's wake, locking by default, and Dean drops to the edge of his bed in a weary slouch. He scrubs a hand across his mouth, and it's not until his chest starts to hurt that he realizes he's holding his breath, waiting to see if Sam will come back.

A moment later Dean hears the unmistakable rev of the Impala's engine turning over, then the familiar rumble gradually fades as Sam drives away. 

Dean is finally, actually, _really alone_. Sam won't be back for hours, until lunchtime at the earliest, and it's barely past sunup now. Dean knows just how to use that time.

He hasn't even gotten dressed yet, despite Sam's fleeting efforts to induce him into visiting the library, which means Dean is cool and comfortable in his soft-worn boxers and second favorite Metallica t-shirt. It's so easy to simply scoot up the bed and lie on his back, his eyes dropping closed as he empties his lungs with a slow exhale. 

Dean reaches beneath his boxers and curls his fingers loosely around his cock, and that first touch of his own hand sends pleasant chills along his spine. He's not hard yet, but he'll get there fast—seems like he's always just an inappropriate thought away from a raging hard-on these days—and for once he's got no reason to keep those inappropriate thoughts at bay. If anything the opposite is true. The privacy won't last, and Dean's got to work this tension out of his system somehow. 

He keeps his eyes closed as he tightens his grip and gives a slow, lazy stroke along his own stiffening length. There's no conscious direction to his thoughts, but of course they land quickly on Sam. Sam's face, all fierce focus and generous mouth. Sam's perplexed expression is quickly overtaken by a flavor of heat that Dean has never actually seen on his brother's face. Dean doesn't care. The Sam in his unlikely imaginings moves towards him, looming tall, stalking nearer and nearer with predatory grace. Dean is suddenly only distantly aware of his physical body, of his own hand picking up the pace, as he slips deeper into his own head. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and groans as the fantasy surrounds him.

The kiss he imagines is scorching and forceful, all teeth and tongue and greedy demand, Sam's palm curled hard around the base of Dean's skull to hold him still. An instant later and Dean is on his knees, his entire body heating as his image of Sam holds him there—holds him down—with an unyielding hand atop Dean's shoulder. Sam is suddenly shirtless, offering a distracting glimpse of smooth skin and intimidating muscle, and Dean's mouth waters at the sight. Sam's free hand is busy motion, popping the button of his jeans, unzipping the fly. Reaching inside and drawing his cock out in the loose circle of his fingers.

The grip on Dean's shoulder loosens, shifts, and suddenly Sam has him by the nape of the neck instead. Guiding him forward. Coaxing Dean's mouth open so that Sam's gorgeous cock can slip past his parted lips. The head nudges at the back of Dean's throat for barely a second before Sam tugs him forward hard, shoving the entire length down Dean's throat in a single thrust. 

If this were real life, Dean would gag or choke. He gives decent head—he's had his share of moments with men—but this, deep-throating, is a skill he's never quite mastered.

But fuck it, this is a fantasy—it's _his_ goddamn fantasy—and Dean swallows Sammy down smooth and easy. He keeps right on swallowing as Sam holds him still, holding Dean motionless with bruising strength so that Sam can fuck his face with rough, unforgiving thrusts. Dean clutches at the denim slipping lower on Sam's hips, imagines the salty musk of _Sam_ on his tongue. A corner of his mind wishes fleetingly that this weren't just fantasy—that he could offer this to Sam without fucking things up between them forever—but Dean shuts that voice down fast, and around him the fantasy upends and changes, jarred forward by his momentary distraction.

Dean is on his back now. On the bed or the floor, he doesn't fucking care, because he's on his back and Sam is holding him down. Sam's hands, Sam's bulk, the firm weight of Sam's body, and there's an expression like fire on Sam's face as he forces Dean's legs apart and slips smoothly into the space between. 

They're both naked now. And Sam is talking. Sam is murmuring filthy things as his cock nudges between Dean's splayed thighs. Sam is grinning a predatory grin and promising to fuck him so hard Dean won't walk right for a week, calling Dean filthy, calling him desperate, calling him wanton and greedy. Dean groans in agreement, moans his brother's name, because Sam is right. Dean is all those things. In that instant Dean gives no fucks at all about incest. If Sam were really here, if he were naked and offering, Dean would spread his legs in an instant and damn the consequences anyway.

He settles for quickening the pace of his own hand on his dick, and burying himself all the deeper in imagined sensation: the head of Sam's cock nudging, pressing, finally fucking into him with a single thrust, deep and sudden. Dean cries aloud, not just in his head, and he's close now. 

He's so fucking close. 

" _Sammy_ ," he breathes, and strokes faster, pictures Sam above him. Pinning him. Thrusting in earnest without giving Dean's body a chance to adjust, all animal ferocity and strength. Taking him without gentleness or caution, just the way Dean needs. "Fuck, _Sam_." Dean's voice is hoarse, his chest tight, his whole body right on the edge—

He comes shouting his brother's name, his release slicking his fingers as orgasm rockets straight down to his toes.

Dean tucks himself away without opening his eyes, then wipes his hand dry on the fabric of his boxers. His breathing is slow to even out, his heart reluctant to calm from its frantic pace. Physical satisfaction leaves him achy and wrung out, and if it's not quite enough, it's certainly better than the tense limbo he's been trapped in. Eventually Dean opens his eyes.

And freezes to mortified stone when he finds Sam standing at the foot of the bed, gaping down at Dean with a wide-startled stare.

The silence that stretches between them is agony. Dean's heartbeat raises a panicked racket in his ears, in his suddenly ice-cold chest, and Dean sits up in an awkward scramble, bracing both hands on the bedspread behind him. He gasps at Sam in horrified shock and guilt.

It's almost impossible, but Dean manages to scrounge up enough of his voice to ask, "The fuck are you doing back already?"

Sam doesn't answer. He's still staring at Dean with his mouth agape, and Dean can imagine all too well the disgusted horror in his brother's head right now. Any second Sam will beat a hasty retreat, and probably never come back. Suddenly Dean can't breathe.

But Sam doesn't leave. The seconds stretch into agonized minutes, but Sam _doesn't leave_ , and Dean stares at his brother in mounting confusion. Because Sam doesn't look disgusted. If anything he looks considering, like his brain is working a hundred miles per second behind the flat-footed surprise still putting that slack expression on his face. 

Then Sam takes a single step— _towards_ the bed, instead of away like Dean expects. A second step brings him around the foot of the bed and closer still. A third and he's directly at Dean's side, making Dean crane his neck back at an uncomfortable angle to meet his brother's eyes. Sam's expression shifts and darkens, and he doesn't look surprised anymore. Still considering, but there's something more, too. Something almost... 

_Hungry_ , Dean realizes with a jolt. Sam looks hungry. Not just hungry, but fucking _ravenous_. Except Dean must be imagining the heat in Sam's eyes, because there's no way his brother is bent the way Dean is. Their whole lives they've had damn near nothing in common beyond the fucked up life they were born to, and even that Sam put behind him the second he could get away. There's no way _this_ —these fucked up feelings that have lodged behind Dean's ribs and left him all twisted up inside—can be something they actually share.

Then Sam sits down on the edge of Dean's bed, right there in Dean's space, and there's no mistaking his intentions. Sam should be distancing himself after what he just saw, but instead he's gravitating closer, staring at Dean's mouth as he leans in. There's determination in the line of Sam's shoulders, and intensity in the approaching hazel of narrowed eyes.

When Sam kisses him, it's nothing at all like the forceful disaster from Dean's fantasy. This is a softer heat, tentative and cautious, as Sam's tongue teases at the seam of Dean's lips. Sam's hand is gentle when he cups Dean's jaw to coax him into a better angle, and Dean opens for the hopeful thrust of Sam's tongue, gentle and greedy. 

That first permission seems to be all Sam needs, because a moment later the gentleness is gone and Sam is shoving Dean down onto the bed, onto his back. Dean's pulse kicks up hot and fast, because _there's_ that forceful strength he's been imagining. Sam follows him down and claims his mouth in a harder kiss. Sam _doesn't_ crawl on top of him or pin Dean with the weight of his body, but from the frantic force of his mouth, Dean would bet that's an effort of conscious will on his brother's part. If his mouth weren't busy, full of the exploring thrust of Sam's tongue, Dean would tell his brother to ditch that unnecessary willpower and fucking _take him_ already. 

God, it's enough though. It's enough that Sam is hovering above him, leaning down to press Dean into the mattress, hands holding Dean still with growing confidence. It's enough that Sam hasn't run away.

Dean is no saint, and he'll goddamn take what he can get.

The mattress creaks as Sam crawls up onto his knees above Dean, and then Sam's hold shifts on him—Sam takes Dean's right hand in a firm grip and guides it low between their bodies—guides it steadily between Sam's legs. And fuck. _Fuck_.

Fucking hell, that is Sam's cock beneath Dean's hand, hot and hard through straining denim. That is Sam's _cock_ , and Sam groans into Dean's mouth even as he presses Dean's hand all the harder between his legs, hips bucking in a movement that seems not at all intentional. 

Dean breaks from the kiss with a desperate gasp, but he curls his hand willingly around the impressive bulge of his brother's arousal. Suddenly all this _isn't_ enough. Dean wants to touch Sam skin-to-skin, wants to feel the silky heat of Sam's dick sliding against his palm. Wants to taste, god damn it, wants to spread his legs for Sam, wants to know what it really fucking _feels like_ to have Sam pinning him down and pounding into him. He wants to see Sam lose all that careful control. He wants Sam to put him on his knees, hold Dean still and take-take- _take_. He wants Sam to use those imposing muscles and impressive strength to force him to the ground, goddamn _anywhere_. He wants Sam to claim him like ownership, because Sam _does_ own him, and it terrifies Dean to realize just how completely it's true.

When Dean opens his eyes he finds Sam watching him, and there's surprising clarity in the lust-shadowed heat of his brother's gaze. Dean can't breathe through the sudden knot of feelings in his chest. He squeezes his hand instead, watches Sam shudder at the pressure and friction of Dean's touch. They meet each other's eyes with startled understanding, and Dean doesn't think he's imagining any of the complicated emotions lighting Sam's face. 

"You too, Sammy?" Dean asks, and his voice sounds choked and breathless.

Sam only grins, all warmth and mischief, and kisses Dean again.


End file.
